Ten minutes to eight!

For the first time the girl felt nerve and resolution fail her.  She looked at Mrs. Hurd and wrung her hands.  The mother was muttering and moving, but not yet fully awake; and Willie lay as before.  Hardly knowing what she was doing, she drew the curtains back, as though inspiration might come with the light.  The rain-clouds trailed across the common; water dripped heavily from the thatch of the cottage; and a few birds twittered from some bedraggled larches at the edge of the common.  Far away, beyond and beneath those woods to the right, Widrington lay on the plain, with that high-walled stone building at its edge.  She saw everything as it must now be happening as plainly as though she were bodily present there—­the last meal—­the pinioning—­the chaplain.

Goaded by the passing seconds, she turned back at last to wake that poor sleeper behind her.  But something diverted her.  With a start she saw that Willie’s eyes were open.

“Willie,” she said, running to him, “how are you, dear?  Shall I lift your head a little?”

He did not answer, though she thought he tried, and she was struck by the blueness under the eyes and nose.  Hurriedly she felt his tiny feet.  They were quite cold.

“Mrs. Hurd!” she cried, rousing her in haste; “dear Mrs. Hurd, come and see Willie!”

The mother sprang up bewildered, and, hurrying across the room, threw herself upon him.

“Willie, what is it ails you, dear?  Tell mother!  Is it your feet are so cold?  But we’ll rub them—­we’ll get you warm soon.  And here’s something to make you better.”  Marcella handed her some brandy.  “Drink it, dear; drink it, sweetheart!” Her voice grew shrill.

“He can’t,” said Marcella.  “Do not let us plague him; it is the end.  Dr. Clarke said it would come in the morning.”

They hung over him, forgetting everything but him for the moment—­the only moment in his little life he came first even with his mother.

There was a slight movement of the hand.

“He wants his animals,” said Marcella, the tears pouring down her cheeks.  She lifted them and put them on his breast, laying the cold fingers over them.

Then he tried to speak.

“Daddy!” he whispered, looking up fully at his mother; “take ’em to Daddy!”

She fell on her knees beside him with a shriek, hiding her face, and shaking from head to foot.  Marcella alone saw the slight, mysterious smile, the gradual sinking of the lids, the shudder of departing life that ran through the limbs.

A heavy sound swung through the air—­a heavy repeated sound.  Mrs. Hurd held up her head and listened.  The church clock tolled eight.  She knelt there, struck motionless by terror—­by recollection.

“Oh, Jim!” she said, under her breath—­“my Jim!”